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I pulled Marty behind the car, shielding him from any additional injuries, feeling for the pulse in his neck. He’d been shot in the shoulder, the lucky son of a bitch’s anger the reason he was still alive. “You’re going to be okay, Marty.”
I’d fucking make certain of it.
While the pit crew raced for cover as demanded, Brandon stood with his hands on his hips, shielding his eyes as he stared at the stands. What the fuck was wrong with him? I raced toward my friend, the force when I threw myself on him knocking him to the pavement. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” My snarl was full of rage. I twisted, trying to locate the assassin again.
The motherfucker wasn’t getting away from me.
“What is going on?” Brandon fought to get out from underneath me.
I yanked us behind a concrete barrier on the sidelines, taking the time to peer up into the stands, scanning the seats. That’s when I noticed the asshole had already made it to the exit, a dark case in his hand. The indication was clear. He was a marksman hired for the job. I should know since I’d been trained as one years before. “Listen to me. Get Marty to the hospital.”
“I’ll call 9-1-1,” he insisted.
“Don’t do that. He’ll live but he needs medical attention. I need to trust you to handle it.”
“Where the fuck are you going?” He struggled to his feet, remaining crouched down beside me, staring at the stands in the same direction. “Who the hell is on your shit list now?”
“This time I don’t know. But I’m going after him.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Just do what I ordered. The last thing we need is the cops sniffing around.” I didn’t give him time to object, jumping over the barrier toward the exit where my personal car was parked. The assassin had missed his mark and knew better than to hang around.
He’d had one shot at completing the job. He’d failed. Thank God Marty had been furious, confronting me or I’d be dead. I made it to my Corvette seconds later, jumping inside and immediately grabbing my weapon from the glove box. There was one way in and one way out. What the fucker who’d dared make an attempt on my life didn’t know was that my beloved sportscar had been retrofitted not only with bulletproof steel but also with a souped-up engine.
I’d be able to catch the son of a bitch with ease.
As I maneuvered my way from the parking lot of the venue, it didn’t take me long to locate the speeding dark car. While it was obvious the perpetrator was an expert driver, he had no clue what I was capable of. I laughed softly, my grip on the steering wheel tightening.
Whoever was driving suddenly realized I was on his tail, pressing down on the accelerator and racing from the venue, going airborne before hitting the street. If he made it to the highway, it would be difficult to catch him, dangerous to continue. I had no plans of allowing that to happen. Aftermaking a couple of turns, I grabbed my weapon, pressing the button for the window.
I was a damn good shot. Thank God, I could shoot with my left hand. A grin remaining on my face, I aimed carefully, holding my level of concentration, accomplishing my goal of blowing out the tire. Then I backed off on the gas, waiting as the assassin lost control of the car. When the massive piece of steel slammed into a curb, the can spun in a complete three hundred and sixty degrees, tires screaming before coming to a full hard stop.
I was out of the car in seconds, not giving a shit about who paid any attention to what I was doing. Rage tearing through me, I kept my weapon lowered as well as in both hands as I took long strides toward the driver’s door, easily throwing it open in a matter of seconds. Then I yanked the asshole onto the street. “Who the fuck sent you?” I demanded.
The assassin attempted to act as if he had no clue what the hell I was talking about. “Who are you?”
I pressed the barrel against his temple, taking a deep breath. “Don’t fuck with me. I’m not in the mood. You have five seconds to tell me who hired you.” I quickly scanned the interior of the SUV, finding nothing of use. If I had to guess, I’d say the man had been hired for the sole purpose of ending my life, likely carrying nothing that would identify who he was working for. Not that he would care. It was a well-paid gig and nothing more. I’d been taught the various techniques by my father when I’d barely hit eighteen.
He’d wanted to ensure his sons were well protected against this exact type of attack. Fortunately, with my brother shifting the business into more legitimate activities since taking the helm, assassination attempts had become less frequent.
Which was one reason I needed to discover the identity of the person or group who’d hired the fucker.
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.” The man had no detectable accent, his white shirt and trousers meant to blend in with the seats in the stands as well as the sunny day. He’d known the best vantage point to take his shot as well. That meant he’d had the time to study the speedway, learning I’d be in attendance for the test run. Sadly, it had been on the calendar for a full month, several people having access.
Pop!
The single shot was all I needed, although I’d wanted nothing more than to torture the worthless fuck for hours. Then I shoved him back into the driver’s seat, immediately hitting the unlock button inside. After kicking his legs into the vehicle and closing the door, I tugged my cellphone into my hand, dialing the man who usually insisted on shadowing me to every event. Today was a rare exception given his daughter had an earlier function at school.
I trusted few men, which had helped keep me alive in my almost forty-two years.
I rubbed my jaw as the call went through, glancing from one side of the street to the other. In this area, no one was paying any attention to what was happening on the street, the chosen location for the track required to be rural given the noise and pollution.
“Boss. Everything okay?” Rocco asked as soon as he answered the phone.
“No. I was attacked at the track.”
“What the fuck? Do you need me?”
